


Drift

by bearprince



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Bipolar Disorder, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, fuck around and find out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-02-22 10:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearprince/pseuds/bearprince
Summary: Ezra--a fussy, materialistic theology professor--meets Anthony Crowley due to a mishap, and they are immediately lifelong friends. His ability to shove his feelings way down deep inside helps him help Crowley through some difficult events.Crowley is a bipolar, bisexual, bioengineering student-to-principal investigator with an interest in giant robots. He invents drift compatibility on a whim, a fun theory that will definitely never have a practical application.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23
Collections: Crawly's Angels Valentine's Day Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [walkwithursus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/gifts).



> For [walkwithursus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus) for the Crawley's Angels Valentine's Day Exchange. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> For the reader: this has discussions of mania and delusional thinking. Don't want it to sneak up on ya! Also, I am bipolar. We're out here projectin'.

**_30 years ago_ **

A shrill, insistent beeping cut through the fog of Ezra’s dreams. He projected himself out of the bed, heart pounding. He stuffed his feet into boots and his arms in his plush robe before he could process that yes, indeed, that was the fire alarm. His mind jumped to the worst case scenario—his precious books up in flames, his clothes turned to ash, his record collection melted and Dalí-esque. He almost pushed against common sense to grab some of his most valued possessions, but self-preservation edged out. He shoved open the door and took the stairs two at a time, joined by other panicked individuals and families. On the other side of the street, the tenants watched the apartment building en masse. Ezra scanned for fire in the windows, but all he could see were lights from Christmas trees.

“Will our presents be okay?” a young boy asked as he tugged on his exhausted mother’s sleeve. Ezra squinted as he looked around at the crowd, certain he could Sense whose fault this was. Discovering the guilty part was simple, though, as there was a man whose eyes kept flitting from person to person.

Ezra pulled his robe tighter as he marched forward to him. The first thing he noticed about him was the mohawk and facial piercings, as they were difficult not to notice. The second thing he noticed was that the man wore a flimsy, hole-y t-shirt with a band on it he didn’t recognize and thin-looking pajama bottoms. It must have been 0C at most. A dusting of snow from a few days ago was still on the ground.

The third thing he noticed was how devastatingly handsome he was, with his dark curls and full lips. But, it was neither the time nor the place.

“How on Earth did you set off the fire alarm?” Ezra asked. He didn’t have to make an effort to sound posh and incredulous.

The other man’s teeth chattered as he responded. “M-making chips,” he said, as if that was a sufficient answer to his question.

“At—“ Ezra looked at his watch, “3 o’ clock in the morning?” he asked, voice rising with each syllable. “On Christmas Eve?!”

The other man averted his gaze and shuffled from foot to foot. Ezra almost felt bad for interrogating him, but now he had a chorus of “yeahs!” from the parents behind him, so he felt obligated to continue. “Is it still burning?” he asked. “We have a right to know,” he said, earning a few more sounds of approval and making him feel Important. It was the same feeling as leading a Homeowners Association meeting.

The firestarter sniveled. “Nnno.” Another sniffle, which Ezra thought could have been for effect. “I put it out.”

Ezra patted down his front again. “Well!” he said, indignant, but the other man looked so miserable by this point that Ezra softened. The sharp December air had cleared his grogginess, and Ezra decided that the person who was making chips in the middle of the night and was now standing in the freezing cold in next to nothing must be having a worse night. The anger of the crowd was still palpable, but Ezra ignored them. “That’s alright, then.”

The alarms halted, and the crowd took a collective sigh of relief. Ezra shrugged off his robe and handed it to the other man. “Tea?”

The robe engulfed the skinny man as he slid it on which made Ezra smile. The man nodded and smiled back. His round, golden, soulful eyes threw off his punk aesthetic, but in a pleasant way.

Inside, Ezra learned that the other man’s name was Anthony-Crowley-but-goes-by-Crowley. Crowley was a brilliant conversationalist. He was a bioengineering PhD student at the same university Ezra had attended for Theology a handful of years ago. Though Crowley’s wit was acerbic, it was clear he was grateful to have company on Christmas Eve. Ezra thought to himself that he had never once regretted being kind and merciful. When it occurred to him, of course.

**_15 years ago_ **

After the celebratory dinner for the acceptance of Crowley’s paper to the journal, Crowley needed a distraction. He could feel the post-completion panic bubbling up. Then, there was the anxiety about needing a fresh idea… Thankfully, Ezra invited himself over to his flat. He seemed to intuit when Crowley would not want to be alone. Crowley would not tell him how grateful he was for that lest Ezra preen for all eternity.

Crowley grabbed Godzilla off of the shelf, thinking it would be enough giant dinosaur for himself and enough of a thinkpiece for Ezra. Even though Crowley was turned away from him, he knew when Ezra’s mouth was opening to protest.

“Nuh-uh. You picked the movie last time. You cannot complain about  Godzilla .”

“I can complain,” Ezra said. “I have both the ability and motivation,” he said, and now Crowley knew he was being obstinate. But, what else was new? Before sitting down, Crowley brought Ezra the nicest bottle of wine he had as a peace offering. Crowley felt an embarrassing amount of satisfaction for making the right choice as Ezra cooed and wiggled with delight.

“It’s a classic, Ezra. You’ll love it,” Crowley said. Ezra huffed, but he seemed placated enough as Crowley poured them both glasses. Crowley turned it on.

—

“Not a far cry from your melancholic literature, is it?” Crowley asked as the credits rolled, making sure to enunciate literature with every syllable in the way he knew drove Ezra mad. He grinned as Ezra’s face pinched before relaxing again.

“I must admit, it had more gravitas than I would have imagined.”

“Do you think there could have been another approach? Other than the Oxygen Destroyer, I mean,” Crowley said.

“What do you mean, my dear?”

Crowley sat up all at once, and then immediately regretted it as his head swam. “I mean, maybe they could have fought it?”

Ezra laughed. “What, and be stampeded?”

Crowley flapped his hands. “No, I mean that they could, er, build something.”

“Like what?”

“A… robot? A big robot. Something that could physically fight him. Like… building a Mothra, so to speak.” From Ezra’s blinking and uncertain nodding, it was clear Crowley was now speaking to himself, but he was on a roll. “It would need a lot of power, and it would need fast reaction times… But, the power would be too much for the brain—it’d have to be—”

Ezra interjected, his hand wagging his glass unsteadily. “Two people?”

Crowley grinned wider and snapped his fingers. “Two people! Ezra, you’re a genius,” Crowley said, and Ezra rolled his eyes as Crowley blew him a kiss.

A notebook materialized from a gap in the couch, and Crowley scrawled some basic figures off the cuff, like second nature.

Crowley didn’t notice Ezra’s frown.

“Should I let myself out…?” Ezra asked.

Crowley waved him on without looking up, and then startled himself by doing so. “Sorry, angel. You know I’ve been searching for a new idea, even if it’ll be stupid in the morning.” He gave Ezra his best winning grin that had wiggled him out of many arguments and miscommunications.

“I understand, dear. I’ll leave you to it. Do give me a ring if you’re not too hungover for lunch?”

“Sure thing.” His fingers twitched, aching to write more. As soon as Ezra gathered his things and left, Crowley flipped on another light and pulled in a rolling whiteboard in from his office.

Crowley sketched in the abstract, more of a storyboard than a diagram. He imagined a hulking mass, but one capable of grace. The project he had just finished focused on restoring mobility with spinal protheses and nerve stimulation. Seeing people walk again had been incredible. However, they had slow progress, and the worst was when it didn’t work. This project would be a celebration of the human body and mind. Man and machine would move together in a symbiotic dance, pushing the limitations of both. He drew a magnified section highlighting the connection between the mechanical structures of the robot and human neural activity. It could be done. He knew it. He laughed as the drafting pencil made a sure line right to the edge of the paper. Three o’ clock rolled around without his noticing.

—

Crowley flipped to the last PowerPoint slide, which featured an embedded movie clip of Godzilla sinking back below the ocean.

“And that is how the world would survive Godzilla using the power of the drift,” he said. He took a sip of water from the stool ahead.

There was a brief lull before a smattering of applause, which turned into more applause, and then evolved further into a standing ovation. He was glad his sunglasses hid how wide his eyes went as he looked around the lecture hall.

Half of his audience was younger than he would have expected for a lecture on bioengineering. Also, more casually dressed, as in, several of them were in t-shirts with Gundams on them. He didn’t know what to make of their presence, but they were certainly enthusiastic.

He took some questions, and it seemed the portion of the audience with Gundam shirts had more detailed questions on his theory of neural linking and drift compatibility than even his colleagues. He was over the moon with how things had fallen into place, as silly as it was.

When he was younger, mohawk-ed, and a bit more naive, he wanted to combine science with art. The human body and the human mind—those were art to Crowley. In a dancer, he could see the muscles and bones working in ways that his own never would; in a professor, he could see a dignity and stability of purpose he never thought he was capable of. He wanted to bring people closer to their ideal selves, to make them capable of things they had never dreamed of. So, he’d chosen cybernetics through bioengineering.

And yes, he may have gotten off and away on science fiction, but he knew his theory was sound. It could, potentially, have other applications. And, he had seemed to interest some people that had probably never entered a stuffy lecture hall before. They may have never considered the wonderful, terrible capabilities of cyber enhancement. A sense of purpose bloomed in his chest.

When he went back to his office, Ezra was waiting for him with a smile. “Congratulations, Crowley,” he said, holding out a small, exquisitely wrapped box. He sounded so proud that Crowley’s ears pinked.

Crowley opened the box to find an iPod. When he started to shake his head and say it was too much, too expensive, Ezra protested. “Please, turn it on. I don’t want all the asking around at record stores to be for naught.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but did as Ezra insisted. On it were his favorite albums, from The Buzzcocks to The Who. Crowley, for the second time in an hour, was glad he was wearing sunglasses. He didn’t know how to say this was the nicest thing someone had done for him, so he gave Ezra a solid hug around his middle instead.

“Thank you,” he said. “You big sap. You paid for all this?”

“I may or may not have paid one of my students to teach me how to use Limewire,” he admitted. Crowley laughed, and he loved seeing Ezra’s sheepish smile in return. “You told me you didn’t want to ‘forget your roots’ when you ‘hit the big time’, and while you may not have the mohawk now, I know how much of a punk you still are.”

Crowley grinned. “You’re right.” Crowley wanted to kiss him, he wanted to take him home and show his appreciation in interesting and toe-curling ways. One day, he’d get the nerve. For now, he said, “Let me take you to dinner?”

“I can live with that,” Ezra teased, and they left Crowley’s office again.

Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he felt this elated.

They went for Japanese and got it for take-away.

Inside Crowley’s flat, everything was neater and cleaner than it had been in months. Insomnia could help keep your house tidy, at least. His stomach growled, and Ezra raised an eyebrow.

“Have you eaten today?”

“Er. Well, you know how nervous I get before speeches,” he lied. In truth, he had forgotten. Soon, Crowley would get something to have the iPod playing, but for now he started one of his CDs on his oversized stereo and hummed along. He smiled and moved his head with the beat.

Ezra was giving him a funny look. After fifteen years, Crowley could read Ezra like a book. Even when he was stingy with words, his face said so much. Right now, as Ezra looked at him, he saw “worried” written plain as day.

“You seem very happy,” Ezra commented. “Been sleeping well?”

Crowley knew this particular line of questioning, and right now it was getting on his nerves. “Yes, angel, I have been sleeping,” he lied again. Why did he keep doing that?

Ezra narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything. Now his face said “I absolutely don’t believe you.”

“Hey—don’t look at me like that!” Crowley snapped.

“Like what?” Ezra said, baffled.

“Squinting at me. I don’t like it.”

Now Ezra looked more worried than before. “It was unintentional, my dear. I promise.”

“Why are you so worried about me?”

Ezra chewed on his cheek and looked away. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

“But, I feel great,” Crowley said with a frown. “Don’t you want me to feel that way?”

“Of course I want that. But sometimes,” Ezra started, twisting a thread in his lap blanket, “well, sometimes it leads to… mania. The hospital. I just—I just worry. And I don’t want you to hide it from me again.” That look again, showing Crowley he knew he was lying. Crowley felt angry, like he’d snap again, but he knew that would only cause Ezra to worry more.

“I’m fine. It’s the project. Gosh, Ezra, did you see how excited they were?” he asked, now bouncing in his seat. “It feels so good to share something like that.”

Ezra relaxed and smiled. Shakily, but he still smiled. “I really am proud of you, Crowley,” he said, and for the briefest of moments his hand squeezed Crowley’s knee. But after that he stood up to throw away their dinners. Crowley cursed under his breath, knowing he wouldn’t get up the nerve now that Ezra thought he wasn’t in his right mind.

Long after Ezra had left, Crowley was wide awake in his bed, convinced he could change the world with a snap of his fingers.

—

Ezra stood outside of Crowley’s flat with the key in his hand, trying to filter out the worst case scenarios that kept scratching at his mind. Deep breaths were helpful to a point, though the smell of pizza drifting over from the flat opposite Crowley’s was so incongruous to Ezra’s mood that it felt ridiculous. He felt dizzy and nauseated and wished he had skipped lunch.

He hadn’t known where Crowley had been for the past week. He had no legal right to, of course. He hadn’t seen the ambulance pull up to campus, but he’d heard students telling rumors soon after. Not only Crowley’s students, but it appeared almost everyone knew what had happened. He wished he hadn’t been at a damned conference. He would have canceled it had he known Crowley’s state, but Crowley was like a cat. He would hide his emotional distress so well that even his best friend of fifteen years didn’t know what was happening.

He put on a brave face and pounded at the door. Predictably, no answer. Alright, no need to panic. Not atypical. He unlocked the door and called out. “Crowley?”

Ezra didn’t hear him, but he did hear something faint coming through the bathroom door. As he walked up, he could make out Joni Mitchell’s voice. Oh, dear. So this was a Joni Level Crisis, then. Ezra had encountered a Joni level Crowley crisis once before, and it had ended in an ambulance ride.

Ezra tap-tapped the bathroom door. “Crowley?”

“Nuh?” Ezra heard from what he imagined was approximately toilet-level, and Ezra opened the door.

Crowley’s face was smushed against the porcelain. Above him, Joni played from his iHome, one of Crowley’s brand-new technologies. He looked clean, though more than a bit miserable, but Ezra didn’t see anything immediately alarming.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Ezra said.

“S’ry. It’s in—“ Crowley’s eyebrows knit as he considered. “The depths of hell, for all I know.”

Ezra sighed and leaned back against the counter. “I had to hear from Professor Device, you know.”

Crowley, not in a position to easily turn, squeezed his eyes shut like he could make it go away.

“Crowley… Why didn’t you call me after? I could have at least helped you clean out your office.”

Crowley sighed and muttered, “Didn’t want you to be disappointed,” which was the sort of vulnerability that indicated an alarming level of intoxication. It seemed his body had sorted out its blood alcohol content out on its own, though.

Ezra had the strongest urge to run his hand through Crowley’s hair. Selfish, really, wanting to wash his unruly hair, set his head in his lap, and soothe him… He folded his hands behind his back as a measure against his desires. He also felt helpless, seeing his best friend in the floor like this. Crowley belched, then dry-heaved, and Ezra managed not to wrinkle his nose. He gave Crowley the most platonic pat on the back he could manage.

“I promise I’m not disappointed, Crowley. But what happened?”

“Ungh.” Crowley looked at the door, or tried to look past the door. He then worried his lip. “Alka-Seltzer first?”

Ezra nodded. “Of course,” he said, secretly thrilled he had an opportunity to leave the room. He was elated that Crowley was alright, but seeing him this upset again broke Ezra’s heart.

As he walked to Crowley’s kitchen for a glass, he straightened up what he could. Trash had piled up by the back door, and when Ezra opened the cabinet, the shelves had no clean glasses. He looked straight ahead, steeling his resolve, as he washed one from the overflowing sink.

He brought Crowley his Alka-Seltzer. Crowley reached up from the floor, but Ezra realized he had a little leverage now. He didn’t hand it over despite Crowley’s whining. “I’m moving in,” he said, flat and definitive.

“What? No! You—you love your space. This is—you don’t want to live here,” he  said . “Definitely not with me,” he added. He croaked as he talked, eyes looking elsewhere, and Ezra could see him working out how much housework he’d left to the wayside.

“I am. I’m moving in, at least for a little while to help you stay on your feet. I’m not going to see you live like this.” Crowley reached for the Alka-Seltzer again, but Ezra held it higher. “Crowley. Let me.” Usually when Ezra had Steeled his Resolve he didn’t end up with a huge lump in his throat or wet eyes. This wasn’t one of those times. “Please,” he said.

Crowley crumpled forward before rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “Yeah, alright, just let me—“ He grabbed for the glass again. Ezra finally handed it over, and Crowley knocked it back. “When?”

“Ah, well, I packed an overnight bag in case you needed someone to keep you safe. And I daresay you do, so I will be on the sofa.”

Crowley looked cross, and Ezra knew he wanted to say something from his face, but he sighed instead. “Yeah. I do. Let me at least help you get the clothes off of it—“

“There’s no need. It’s not as bad as all that, dear. Take that glass and get more water, and then take a shower.”

Crowley nodded, in no position to argue. Ezra helped him to his feet. He wobbled and grimaced, which made Ezra worry again. “I need pain pills,” he explained. “Can’t take ‘em right this second, but I will.” Ezra nodded and held him under his arm to get him to the kitchen, unpleasantly surprised by how little strength it took to carry him.

After sorting himself out, Crowley collapsed onto the couch and Ezra sat with him, stock-straight. Ezra knew the gist of the situation from Professor Device, but he needed to hear it from Crowley himself. “Tell me what happened, Crowley.”

Crowley sighed and collapsed further. “Well, I lost my mind, is what happened. I told the dean there is a government conspiracy to eradicate everyone who had worked on the Jaegar Project. Of course, I didn’t have evidence—couldn’t’ve, because it was a delusion—but I told him ‘they’ had been tracking my mobile.” He scoffed at himself, like he’d been ridiculous, even though Ezra knew Crowley had thought it was true.

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad, all things considered.”

Crowley winced and flopped away. “I—I threatened him. I accused him of leaking information. To, uh. To MI6. I said I would have to kill him, Ezra.” He covered his face with his hands in shame.

“Oh, Crowley…”

“I’m not in jail because the dean knows I’m bipolar and I wasn’t armed. The police and the psychiatrist determined I wasn’t dangerous, despite fighting a few EMTs.” He swallowed. “It was ugly. There were students present. The dean didn’t have a choice.”

Ezra knew a pat wouldn’t suffice this time. He picked Crowley up and embraced him. Crowley relaxed against him and cried against his shoulder. Ezra pet through his hair, wishing he could kiss his temple, wished to do a million things to show him the depth of how much he cared for him. He ached to make things better, to fix it all for him. He ached to love him. Instead, Ezra rocked him gently as Crowley hiccuped.

**_11 years ago ****_**

“… Yes, yes. I’m fine. Honestly. Stay at your Jesus party as long as you want. I call it as I see it, thank you. Hell, take a trip to Amsterdam—God knows you could loosen up. I’ll see you when you get home. Yes. Okay. _Yes_ , I’ll take care of it. I’m eating now. Okay. Ta.” Crowley munched on some cereal out of the box, which he noticed Ezra had gotten more of without him even requesting. Ezra could be a mother hen, though Crowley suspected guilt was the real crux of any mother instinct. Still, he was thoughtful. Crowley couldn’t think of another person that was thoughtful to him in particular, especially these days. But, he wished his damnedest that Ezra didn’t pity him. Prayed, almost. He wished the circumstances were different, and Crowley didn’t need someone to help him. He wanted Ezra to know he was capable, stable. 

Crowley had built a routine, at the suggestion of his therapist. First thing in the morning, he would stretch, often popping ominously. Then, he ate at least some breakfast with his coffee so he could take his medicine. Right after, he did nothing but sit still while he nursed the rest of his mug. Stillness remained alien to him. But, he had kept up the habit for a few months now. As he looked out the window, he considered his Situation.

Ezra had been living with him for four whole damn years now, almost to the day. His heart still felt heavy when he considered what had happened, despite the distance of time. Ezra had helped Crowley get back on his feet and maintain gainful employment with a florist. His job didn’t make use of his PhD, but it was the pace he needed. Ezra had been the one who had paid more than his share of rent so they could have more space. In a million lifetimes, Crowley could never repay him.

His five minute timer, labeled “don’t do shit”, went off. Damn. He was supposed to clear his mind of thoughts, not ruminate more. Still, ruminating had been his modus operandi for as long as he remembered; he’d need a hell of a lot more time to let go of the habit. Now it was time for his allotted fifteen minutes of news.

Crowley clicked on the TV. Oh, another Godzilla remake? This one looked terrible—too many glowing bits for his taste—although the fact they’d gotten the BBC to agree to use their logo was impressive. He turned the channel, only to find the same remake on… a local British news station? He watched, fascinated, and then checked his pill organizer to see if he had taken the right things this morning. Check. He flipped to another news channel to see the same blurry clip, apparently from the cell phone of a crew member on an ocean liner.

The scientists were calling them kaiju, like they had already been dubbed for decades now. He could make out the Golden Gate bridge in the distance, though it was still relatively close in the shot. His simple fascination turned to horror as he watched the very real-life kaiju slash apart the ocean liner, and he heard the screams of mortal terror from the crew members.

Eyes still glued to the screen, Crowley picked up the phone to call Ezra, who was away to the Netherlands for a theology conference. No answer. Odd; he knew Ezra wouldn’t get started for a few hours. He almost always picked up when Crowley called.

Crowley had imagined this scenario much more than the average person, but nothing could have ever prepared him for seeing a kaiju in real life, television clip or no. Just like Godzilla, nothing the military threw at it was working against the kaiju, and it was approaching land so rapidly that they wouldn’t be able to use nuclear weapons. His allotted fifteen minutes of news turned into thirty, which expanded to an hour. Crowley became increasingly grateful that the Netherlands were landlocked.

Over the breaking news, a major update — the kaiju was within miles of the California coastline. Crowley called Ezra again, and again heard no answer. Despite the distance between Europe and San Francisco, the news made Crowley incredibly anxious. For one, the news was making him feel that he must be delusional again, and he desperately wanted to know if Ezra was seeing the same thing just to confirm it was real. For another, the subject matter reminded him of his dramatic rise and fall, which he actively tried to forget. And Ezra not answering made him anxious, too: it was still a couple of hours before the presentation of his paper. 

It was time for his bag of tricks, as he liked to call it. He kept a list of coping mechanisms on his Blackberry, as panic always made him forget every last one of them. He didn’t feel like taking a shower. He’d just eaten. He tried hydration, but chugging a glass of water didn’t last long enough to keep the edge off. He wouldn’t be able to focus on a book. TV was the thing making him anxious. His forearm already hurt from the force of using his stress ball. Then he saw “take a walk” on his list, and that he could do. He kept his Blackberry’s ringer on high just in case Ezra called back.

Going for a walk took his mind off the news, but it brought him back to his morning’s previous dilemma: complicated feelings for his best friend-slash-flatmate. They had eaten everywhere within walking distance, after all. Every block had memories. He touched the bistro table they’d sat at when they’d celebrated Crowley’s new job. He looked into the window of the bakery he’d gotten Ezra’s birthday cake from. Crowley knew all of his most and least favorites. Before Ezra’s return, he could stock the fridge with patisserie, maybe even spring for a box from Patisserie Valerie. Ezra would gripe at him if he bought it too far in advance, though, so perhaps he’d wait until Thursday… 

Ah, but if he did that, he may as well confess when Ezra returned, right? Thinking of the perfect moment was a frequent exercise for him. Why not in the middle of a major world event? Even considering making his feelings known exhilarated and terrified him. He had Plans. He would take him to dinner first, perhaps for foie gras—Ezra’s very favorite—or maybe somewhere more down to earth and easy on the wallet like the Lebanese restaurant on Maddox. He would have a Bordeaux Merlot or a nice port chilling for them at home. And he imagined wrapping his hands around Ezra’s and telling him, point blank, that… He always stopped short when he reached this point. How could words be sufficient to explain? He needed a way to show Ezra beyond gestures, beyond poetry, beyond physicality.

He checked his phone. No missed calls or messages. Damn. He resisted the temptation to check the news again, or to approach someone on the street about it. The newspaper stands were the same, of course; nothing could be printed so quickly. He noticed he was about ten blocks from home, so it would be a good time to head back and figure out what else he could do with himself. 

A few big, black SUVs with deeply tinted windows passed, the kind that made him instantly paranoid. Great. Exactly what he needed. He walked a little faster. The cars didn’t turn on any side streets despite him fervently wishing they would. He walked so fast that he halved the time it took to get back, only to see the cars parked outside of his flat. Fuck, now he really was paranoid. He was about to turn around, when he saw a familiar face come out of the car. Oh, he was losing it. Maybe he should call 999—

“Crowley?” It had to be Ezra. But he was supposed to be in the Netherlands! No, this was too eerie, but it was him, his familiar chubby cheeks and stout, definitely tangible body in front of their flat door. And behind him, a person that could only be described as an agent stepped out, dressed in sunglasses and a smart-looking suit, and then another man in what appeared to be an American military uniform. This was all of his nightmares conveniently wrapped in one package, Crowley thought. Yet, warily, he walked up to them. The American shook his hand, much to his shock.

“Anthony Crowley?” the man asked. Crowley nodded dumbly. “I’m Marshal Luther Kelley. I hear you know a lot about giant robots.” Crowley nodded again, no smarter than five seconds ago. The American had a big, broad accent Crowley would later know as Texan. “I’m here to offer you a job.” Crowley looked back at Ezra with apprehension, and Ezra nodded.

“I, uh. Me?” Crowley wanted real pants to materialize on his person, but it was not to be.

The marshal smiled and pretended to look around. “I don’t see any other experts in giant robots, do you?”

“I suppose not. Uh. Tea?”

The agent and the marshal both laughed. Crowley laughed back nervously. Ezra finally reached him and touched his arm, which did ground him a bit. Ezra’s fingers then dug into his bicep forcefully, though, causing Crowley to wince. He leaned into Crowley’s ear. “You listed me as a co-author?”

“Ah. About that.”


	2. Chapter 2

Having soldiers and secret agents infiltrate his flat was a frequent thought-exercise, but never once in Crowley’s daydreams had one of them asked for the loo. Two agents, complete with spiral-y earpieces and starched black suits, were eating breakfast bars and getting crumbs all over his pristine glass table. Marshal Luther Kelley leaned against the kitchen counter and picked his straight, white teeth with a toothpick like he’d just finished a brisket.

Ezra fumed and crossed his arms; Crowley knew Ezra was one synapse away from tapping his foot. The only reason he wasn’t going in on Crowley right now was his formality from the presence of guests. The marshal perhaps sensed this too, but his solution was ignoring Ezra for now, instead eyeing Crowley as if sizing him up. It made Crowley unbearably nervous and fidgety, stuck between a rock and a hard place. His eyes mapped the room, finding no escape.

The marshal took his toothpick out of his mouth and pointed at Crowley as he smiled. “Nervous fella, aren’t you?” he asked, and Crowley’s head snapped towards him. The marshal chuckled before expertly flicking the toothpick into the bin. “Don’t worry too much. You’re not going to be on the front lines or anything like that. We just need someone to guide us through how it works, so we went to the source.”

Crowley nodded stiffly. “You know it's... more of a theory,” he said as coolly as he could manage, as if he hadn’t spent years on the project, with intricate details including computer-generated battle scenarios.

The marshal chuckled again. "Aliens were a theory until yesterday, Dr. Crowley,” he said. Crowley had not heard himself referred to as doctor in a long, long time; he’d almost forgotten he held the title. He knew the marshal meant to be respectful, but the honorific was as jarring as reminding him that Godzilla actually existed now. He looked to Ezra for some kind of moral support, but Ezra didn’t meet his glance. “Theory is all we have.”

All Crowley could hear for the next few moments was the subtle munching from his kitchen table and Ezra’s fingers plucking the fabric of his shirt. Then, the kettle whistled, making Crowley jump and become the epitome of a nervous fella. He counted the number of people in the room and looked anxiously at the cabinet. “I don’t have enough cups for everyone.”

Again Crowley thought of his imaginary-army infiltrating his apartment — they had certainly never laughed in unison at him.

\--

Ezra did not like having guests and never had (with one notable exception). Ezra’s eye twitched when one man too muscular to fit in his dainty little dining chairs accidentally shattered his favorite porcelain teacup. One minute he had been having an overdrawn but safe conversation about trinitarianism with an Episcopal priest, and the next he was boxed into his apartment by too many men with crew cuts. He wanted—no, needed—a moment alone with Crowley.  
When Crowley excused himself to his room, Ezra followed. To Ezra’s dismay, Crowley immediately pulled his snakeskin weekender out of his closet.

“Crowley, what are you doing?"

“What does it look like, Ezra?" Crowley threw a tiny, flashy pair of something that were decidedly not military issue into his luggage, and Ezra, despite the anger, wondered when Crowley could have possibly worn them, and then, what he could have possibly looked like, for a moment too long. He literally shook the thought out of his head and forced himself to look at Crowley’s eyes. Or, where they had been, as he was now looking at the back of his head from all the blustering about. Crowley turned back around, arms so full of indiscriminately bundled clothes Ezra could only see his nose over the top of them. Ezra had to tell himself twice that Crowley, thinking all of it would fit in an overnight bag and trying to stuff it in, was not endearing.

“You haven’t already decided to go, have you?" Ezra asked.

That made Crowley take pause. "Yes? Am I supposed to let people die?”

“Of course not, but-! Crowley! You listed me as co-author. They think I can do something, too!” Crowley frowned up at him. “Why would you do something like that?” Ezra demanded.

Crowley smiled, which made Ezra angrier. Crowley seemed to sense this and shook his head, eyes wide. “It’s not funny. I mean, it is, in a cosmic sense, but—first, you have to believe me when I say that even at my most paranoid I never thought there would be giant alien lizard monsters in the ocean.”

“Fine. I believe that. Continue."

Crowley nodded, and shifted on his feet like he did when he didn’t want to say something. “You remember watching Godzilla with me, oh, a long time ago, now?”

Ezra arched a ‘get-to-the-point’ eyebrow, but nodded.

“You had that idea. That it had to be two pilots in the Jaeger. Er, the robot. So, that was a very important idea,” Crowley ended on an uncertain note.

Ezra narrowed his eyes. “That’s not all,” Ezra said. He didn't need to phrase it like a question, especially with Crowley’s guilty gulp confirming his statement.

Crowley looked up to the ceiling. "So, you know point of view? Like when an author uses _I_ or _you_ or—“

“I am familiar with the concept,” Ezra interrupted, grinding his teeth.

“Right. Well, you see, when I wrote the paper, you see, I used 'we' for everything. But I was the only one working on the paper itself, so there wasn’t another person to credit, but I didn’t want to change all of it, so—“

“You put me. Because you didn't want to use find and replace in your word processor."

“Okay, first of all, you try finding and replacing every instance and also the doing pronoun agreement things. And second of all, how in the world could I have known it would matter, Ezra!? It was a project for fun!” Crowley grabbed both sides of his head, eyes wide and manic and seeming dangerously close to pulling out his hair or crying or both. “Supposed to be, anyway, and now—will you please let something go for once in your life?”

Ezra had the good sense to deflate, though he did feel wounded. He took a breath. “... I’m afraid, Crowley.”

Crowley, who seemed to have deflated similarly after raising his voice, nodded. “Me, too.” Ezra looked at the disaster of his duffle bag, nearly splitting the seams and missing a good half of his wardrobe essentials, by Ezra’s estimate. “Could have led with that,” Crowley muttered.

Ezra wrung his hands. “I don't know what I am supposed to do. I tried to explain that I didn’t know it, that you had done the work, and here I am anyway!” A bubble of panic licked up his throat and Ezra expertly swallowed it back down.

Crowley looked out the window, taking a deep, long breath. “I—listen. I get that. But... I don’t think I can do this without you. And I want to help. I want to… be useful.”

Ezra fought back the urge to tell Crowley how he was useful and how much he had helped him. He knew Crowley well enough to know he wouldn’t hear it right now. “Alright. I promise to help you as best I can.”

Ezra left, muddling through conflicting emotions. 

He also sent Crowley a link to a packing list, and Ezra could have sworn he heard Crowley scoff at it even behind a closed door.

Ezra knew what he needed to do, but he didn’t like it. Instead of doing it, he kept looking at the dust on his light fixtures and baseboards, wishing there had been some time to clean. 

He went back to the kitchen to see Marshal Kelley helping himself to their coffee. Ezra loudly cleared his throat, and the marshal turned around.

“Marshal, could I have a word outside?” Ezra asked. Kelley nodded, and Ezra led him to the small balcony, carefully closing the glass door behind him and closing the blinds.

Ezra and Marshal Kelly stared at each other for a moment, and Ezra gulped as he got up the nerve. “Well, Professor Fell?”

“Just Ezra, if you would.” He swallowed thickly, and the next words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush. “Crowley doesn’t always have—he’s not always—” Ezra felt shame creep up, which was annoying because this was something the marshal needed to know. “The last time he worked on this project, it ended badly.”

“You mean he’s crazy? Or mad, or loony, or however you Brits put it.”

Ezra winced. “I wouldn’t say it like that. But yes.”

“Did you think United States military intelligence didn’t already know that?”

Ezra, thinking many thoughts relating to the conundrum of “military intelligence”, responded with an eloquent, “Erm.”

“Rest assured, Professor Fell, he will have adequate supervision. Er. Help. Resources. You know—”

Ezra put up a hand. “I don’t know, actually. Do you have psychiatrists available? What will his work schedule be like? Will he have access to a therapist?”

“Whoa, whoa—”

“I’m not a horse, Marshal. I know this is important, but I am not putting him at risk.”

“It’s not your choice,” Marshal Kelley said with gruff finality. “It’s his. But ask yourself, Ezra: why do you think we’re bringing a Catholic priest with a PhD into a classified project? It’s not an accident, as much as you seem to think so.”

Ezra inhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes. “I’m not a trained professional. I can’t be his only resource.”

“And you won’t be, which I already mentioned. Now,” The Marshal took the door handle. “Is that all?”

“I—yes. Yes, that’s all.” 

The Marshal opened the door and the blinds, and Ezra tried hard to ignore the several men whose heads snapped from looking at him and the marshal back to acting natural on his couch, eating his food, and watching his television. Not hard enough. Aziraphale all but folded his arms, face contorted in a cross way Crowley would call ‘huffy’ as he looked at them all invading his space and privacy.

Then he saw the news on the tele. 

He had been hearing stories all morning, from these strange men and Crowley, but he hadn’t actually had a chance to see it yet himself.

The kaiju was monstrous. It had, by now, reached the city of San Francisco, where it was still the early morning. The crunch and scrape of metal was dissonant in Ezra’s ears as he bore witness to the absolute devastation the kaiju left in its wake. Buildings were leveled by its thick armored body. Cars were crushed under its feet, and then thrown into trains and other buildings. It stopped and threw back its head, and the roar was unearthly, uncanny. Ezra’s hands had gone up to his ears to stop it. He would have closed his eyes were he alone.

Crowley emerged from his bedroom with a bag, and it thunked to the floor as he and everyone else stared transfixed at the destruction unfolding on the small screen of his living room.


	3. Chapter 3

Adam Young started university a month ago. He’d shopped for courses, expertly dodging all of his advisor’s and parents’ advice about taking anything practical and boring and insinuated himself into higher level courses using his uncanny power of persuasion. The class he was most excited for had a semester long project of building your very own battle bot, with some extra stuff about computer science.

The kaiju, however, immediately drew his attention away from anything as dull as his academic career. He kept replaying the same grainy video on his Razor phone, trying to capture as many details as possible. Before the higher quality aerial feed on BBC, Adam had analysed every frame of the video taken by the unfortunate crew member of the crab trawler. Even when Adam was in class, he could scarcely pay attention to the lecture, instead daydreaming about the sharp spikes of the monster tearing through sturdy fishnets like wet paper.

On campus, there were dozens of theories about what the kaiju meant, ranging from biological to philosophical. But the reality was, no one came close to making sense of it. As Wensleydale put it, there simply wasn’t enough data. As Brian put it, it was too cool to be anything boring.

“Wensleydale, what do you think? Why is it here?” Adam had approximately thirty tabs open with different half-baked conspiracies as he laid on his bed, and Wensleydale had approximately thirty Excel sheets open for his accounting homework. Brian was currently out of their dorm room, possibly doing field work but more likely to be in the local pub with his rugby friends.

Wensleydale huffed as he turned to Adam. “I told you already, we actually can’t know. It’s—“

“Brand new, no data, I know. But what do you _think_?”

Wensleydale huffed, his back turned to Adam. “I think,” he said, “that I have a deadline.”

Adam rolled his eyes and let his head sink back on his pillow for a moment. He shut his computer to stop feeding his spinning thoughts. Just as he was about to shift gears and maybe work on plans for his battle bot (a Roomba for their dorm room that had been a cheeky birthday gift from Adam’s sister Sarah, which was currently brandishing a knife duct taped perilously to the top), Brian threw open the door.

“Brian! Finally, someone who isn’t a buzzkill.” Wensleydale scoffed from his desk, despite the fact that he was now wearing headphones. “Why do _you_ think the kaiju is here?”

Brian hummed and stroked his long and wispy beard, which he was wont to do to show it off. “Well, first I gotta think, like, why am _I_ here? And if I can’t answer that, then I wouldn’t know why the kaiju is here, would I?”

Adam crossed his arms. “Be faster to say you don’t know.”

“Well, yeah, but… it’s different, on account of people ask that all the time and _they_ don’t mean ‘I don’t know’, right?”

Adam considered. “So,” he said, “you think it’s philosophical.” 

“Maybe. Mostly seems like it just wants to destroy stuff, though.”

“Hmm, yeah. But why?”

Brian shrugged. “Instinct? Iunno. Can’t experience what it’s experiencing, like what Professor Gorsuch said about bats.”

“What’s this got to do with bats?”

“No, not—we know stuff about bats, right? Like they have echolocation, they eat bugs, whatever. It seems pretty simple, right? Not very smart? But we still can’t know what it is like to be one.” Brian swiped the side of his nose with his thumb and nodded, as if that was that. Adam squinted as if looking alone could eek something else out of Brian besides this enigmatic statement, but Brian stood resolute with his arms crossed, and eventually changed the topic to the football game he’d seen at the pub.

Adam hummed along, not listening, as he dived back into his laptop with the thirty open tabs.

\---

After glancing at the data for five minutes, Crowley knew the Jaeger Project got off the ground—without his consent—at least 6 months previously. Unless they had hundreds of people and at least one massive outside manufacturer drop everything to dedicate to the project, there was no way it could have been this far along… Crowley bristled at the idea of the military capitalizing on their ridiculously bloated budget for an unnecessary robot project. Well, unnecessary until perhaps now.

For the past two days, Crowley had had orientation after orientation. At some of the more general ones, he’d also seen Ezra, but they had little more than shared glances across a room before they were again split, as Crowley was briefed on his position as a researcher and Ezra oriented as a chaplain. 

He wanted to have a moment of downtime so that he could just… _fiddle_ , to idly ignore and play a phone game or something, but he couldn’t even have his mobile in the hangar, with the technology being so confidential, and Ezra was living on the opposite side of the base. He wondered if Ezra hated it as much as Crowley did.

And he was never not signing documents. At first, he had resisted the onslaught of paperwork that he knew involved giving away rights he probably wasn’t even aware of, but as it took hours to read through manuals of agreements, he eventually caved and signed his life away to the project, for better or worse.

Crowley, who had intended to sneak away after this meeting on current military strategies to find Ezra, instead found himself hooked into another meeting, signing another non-disclosure agreement, and resolving various theoretical problems with the other scientists the military had mysteriously gathered.

During the briefest of breaks, Crowley at least managed to glance over what was more or less a roster of people in R&D, but it was entirely devoted to the jaeger. In fact, all the data he had been presented was strictly jaeger-based if not telling him that giving data to foreign militaries was still a risk and crime no matter nationality, blah blah blah—

He found himself flitting down a hallway, documents and map in one hand and half-eaten snack apple in the other, in an attempt to find the Marshal's office.

He knocked on the Marshal’s door. “Marshal Kelley, I have a request.”

“Alright, Dr. Crowley,” the marshal began. “What is it?”

“We need a skilled biologist to study the kaiju, and I have just the person. Doctor of Biology Anathema Device. She specializes in animal behaviour.”

“Anathema Device… I’d ask what university to look into, but I’m guessing there’s not exactly another Anathema Device running around. I’ll have someone contact her immediately. Good thinking, Dr. Crowley.”

Crowley’s face heated, much to his chagrin, but he had to leave go to another damn meeting. He had planned earlier in the day to skip that one, but he’d learned his lesson when two men practically dragged him to a lecture on American security clearances and confidentiality he’d attempted to skirt earlier.

Despite being dragged from place to place and feeling bone-tired, Crowley found that he _liked_ getting his way. He was taken seriously as an expert on the development of the drifting tech. It was novel to him to feel important, and being onto something meaty and fast-paced made him feel excited. Awake. He liked having the answers, though he imagined anyone did. 

He just hoped they were the right ones.

His next meeting involved seeing the prototype of the jaeger itself, and he found himself bubbling with excitement. Anthony Crowley was not used to bubbling. But a sliver of him, a part more suited to a pace found within a florist’s shop tucked off in the British countryside, registered the all-consuming energy as alarming; it was just enough to be a reminder of a bright mania that a pitch of anxiety clawed at his intestines. The other parts of him formed a parliament and elected to ignore it, and he tried hard to not half-jog to the section of the hangar he had previously not had access to. He was about to see _in person_ a version of his passion, a culmination of his vision made real. He fumbled with his keycard as nerves rattled his hands.

The door slowly opened, and the beam of bright light bursting through the opening kept him enchanted, eyes so wide in excitement that it was hard to get them to adjust.

As soon as he saw it, the roller coaster of thrill plummeted downwards. His eyes flitted from place to place, searching for something that simply wasn’t there within the giant prototype before him. It was _hideous_. He wondered how they couldn’t see that, but assumed they had been blinded by stars and stripes too long ago to raise an issue. He was reminded this base wasn’t actually at all his element by what seemed like a slap in the face, a bastardization of his very passionate work. It took a great deal of effort to match the expectant excitement of the engineers surrounding it as he walked up.

He attempted to recover as he studied it closer. From a tactical standpoint, he supposed it could more than get the job done. Whoever did the design work must have had a MORE IS MORE reminder taped to the top of their monitor. The massive structure was outfitted with rocket launchers, heat-seeking missiles, saw blades, plasma guns, several types of guns and enough giant blades to skewer dolphins if it fell over. It was broad and square and substantial and intimidating. He had to bend almost backwards to see its head.

If Crowley disagreed with the weapons design, the aesthetic design was perhaps even worse. Though it wasn’t yet fully painted, a huge American flag had been laser etched onto its flank like a placeholder for the paint to follow. The shell was, as of now, matte green, and Crowley _hated_ it. He half-expected the finished version to have tacky flames licking up its legs, or perhaps naked woman silhouette mud flaps and Punisher skulls.

No, there was no denying it. It was completely divorced from the principles of his research. His design was minimal and sleek and focused on speed rather than brute strength. He intended for the jaeger to outmaneuver, well, Godzilla, and it needed to be fast to do so. His notes for materials were all light and strong, and he’d made excruciating research on ways they could be tactically destroyed without compromising the purpose of the jaeger or its internal parts.

This prototype, though, would survive a nuclear blast. It would dam the Thames if it was sitting down. It would be difficult to move even with two people, and he was already mentally calculating the neural load that this behemoth would take.

Worst of all, it wasn’t even called a jaeger anymore. It was, naturally, Americanized to The Reckoner. He could feel the spirit of Jello Biafra wanting to scream from his throat.

Crowley was asked for his opinion and later didn’t even remember what he said to the eager scientists when he was back in his bunker. His drink sat half-finished before he passed out at his desk, and eventually he stumbled to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley shot up, awake and hyperventilating as someone pounded on his metal door. He was fortunately still dressed, though he had to wipe the drool of his face. The pounding at his door didn’t so much as pause. He had to take a few steadying breaths before opening it.

He was met with a small woman, Angela, current bane of his existence, who had too much determination to make a racket.

“Rude wake-up call if you ask me.” He tried to sound cool, but he couldn’t stop himself from pushing a trembling hand through his hair to soothe his nerves. He instantly and badly wanted a coffee or even the cigarette of a bygone habit, but all that was in the dreaded woman’s hands was another damned clipboard.

“Sorry, Dr. Crowley. Marshal Kelley said you didn’t like sudden noises like that—”

Crowley snarled. “Then you should have _listened_.”

However, Angela didn’t flinch at the heat in his tone. “Well, I tried to call first, and you answered your phone and said ‘Just a bloody minute!’ 5 times before I knocked.” The impression of his English accent was insulting, and he would refuse to acknowledge the accuracy. “And that got you right out the door,” she finished with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Ssso, what isss it, then?” Crowley hissed, his lateral lisp making in appearance in the depth of his frustration as he resisted the urge to slam the door in her face.

She looked up at the ceiling and started relaying important points using her fingers. “You missed your visa appointment — your paperwork will be in your mailbox to fill out later, so expect a stack — also a meeting about finalizing the Reckoner design, and a meeting with the marshal and Ezra about how you’re liking your living arrangements. Oh, and you missed the coffee in the mess hall.”

Crowley blinked. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past 12. You were out like a light.”

He grimaced. “So, what’s my next thing?”

“A psychiatric evaluation that starts, oh, now.”

Crowley barked a laugh, but Angela pursed her lips before doing an about-face, walking without him yet clearly expecting him to follow. The sinking feeling from missing so many important points hadn’t had time to resolve, and he felt as though he was walking to his doom. 

Well, it’s not as bad as all that, the recovering, non-catastrophic part of his brain supplied. You’ve done this before. Just lie.

Still glaring at Angela, who was making notes on the clipboard, he opened the door and walked in. When he turned his attention to the psychiatrist, though, his stomach dropped to the floor.

“Oh, fuck me running,” he said as he looked into Dr. Hastur’s face.

“Oh, you’re acquainted then. Perfect.” Angela either had no idea how human interaction worked, or maybe people greeted each other like that in America. Crowley didn’t have the mind to parse it fully. “Please don’t waste my time again, Dr. Crowley,” she said, then shut the door behind her. 

Dr. Hastur was the type of person who had, presumably, the regular amount of teeth, but looked as if he had crammed at least two too many in his mouth, maybe more, especially when he was grinning ear to ear like he was now. “Hullo to you, too, Crowley. Come and sit.” Dr. Hastur pointed with a pen to the seat in front of his desk, the kind of metal folding chair that Crowley’s spine protested against.

Crowley took the seat, now close to visibly shaking. He internally remarked on how he could feel the sleep lines on his face, the pressure of the chair on his legs, the tension in his shoulders that slowly eased the more he thought about them. Dr. Hastur granted him the small courtesy of collecting himself. He glared at Dr. Hastur. “Thought you’d’ve lost your licence by now,” Crowley said venomously.

“Well, then, you must be disappointed. Is that how you feel, Crowley? Disappointed?” Dr. Hastur uncapped his pen and put it to the paper.

“I feel just fine,” he said through his teeth.

Dr. Hastur made a clinical scribble, and Crowley knew Dr. Hastur knew he was lying and was probably making a calculated observation about his behaviour. Every cell in Crowley’s body wanted to bolt out the door, but he made himself stay put.

“Been a long time,” Dr. Hastur remarked.

“Not long enough, unfortunately.” The universe was impossibly too small in ways that made no sense to him.

Dr. Hastur made another note and Crowley cursed himself for not being quiet. Dr. Hastur then opened a form on his ancient monitor and Crowley found himself back in familiar territory. “On a scale of 1-10, what is your level of anxiety?” “Any thoughts of harming yourself or others?” “Do you drink alcohol? How many times a week do you drink?”

He had done so many of these he was almost able to dissociate and answer each question robotically, except that Dr. Hastur would scoff or hum curiously at random intervals for questions Crowley felt he answered well. The effect was unnerving, and Crowley could feel his blood pressure slowly rise the more questions Dr. Hastur asked.

By the end, he was a bundle of nerves and close to tears, but the form was complete. Dr. Hastur said a series of things he couldn’t comprehend, and Crowley asked if he could leave after each sentence. As soon as he was given so much as a nod, Crowley shoved his metal chair forward, making it scrape along the floor, and threw open the door.

He made a beeline back to his bunk, ready to shove anyone else out of his way — definitely Angela, given the chance — and didn’t look up lest someone catch him with glassy eyes. 

“Crowley!” a familiar voice called out, and Crowley snapped to attention. He saw Anathema across the way, close enough to be comforting and far enough away for him to get his shit together before she reached him.

He could never fool her, though. He did smile! He swore he smiled. But she still touched his arm and asked him what was wrong.

“I can’t get any bloody sleep, Anathema. I’ve been running full throttle for days now. You know I need it.”

“Your beauty sleep? You certainly do.” He knew she knew something else was wrong, but she didn’t press.

“You’re here!” Crowley interjected. “I didn’t expect you to come so quickly.”

“To be honest, I couldn’t wait to get here. Is that selfish? Perhaps. I’ll care about it later.”

Crowley laughed. “Trust me, I get that. Where are you staying?”

“Just across the way from you, Angela said. Horrible, isn’t she?” Anathema said with a face of disgust.

“Anathema, I am so glad you’re here.” Crowley let the anxiety about his psychiatric results float away as Anathema happily chatted with him on the short walk back to their area.

“Oh, by the way,” Anathema started, “I had a chance to talk to Ezra while you were in that meeting, and it turns out we can all catch up over lunch in the mess.”

Crowley instantly perked up, looking at her owlishly, and Anathema’s eyes glinted. All too knowing, she was. “Still like that, hmm?” she asked.

“Still like that,” he confirmed with an exasperated sigh.

She nodded in something like solidarity, and thankfully elected not to pursue that line of questioning any longer. She looked at her watch, which was still the same chunky, long out of style Casio she had had since Crowley met her.

“We could head to lunch now, if you’d like?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he said before she even finished asking, and she smiled again.

Crowley had imagined Ezra complaining about the food for days, and felt validated when he saw him across the hall making faces of disgust interpretable from Mars as unseasoned instant mashed potatoes dripped from his fork onto his sheet tray. When he looked up, though, Crowley couldn’t help but notice the excitement as he looked between them both. He slid over to make room for them, and Crowley took his usual place across from him as Anathema sat next to Ezra.

“Thank God you’re both here,” he said, and the posh English accent was like music to Crowley’s ears. “If I have to suffer through another conversation with an American chaplain, well, something dreadful might happen.”

“Awfully early to be thinking that,” Crowley teased.

“You have no idea,” Ezra said, and he sat up stock straight as he recited the shockingly nationalist Chaplain Creed.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “They expect you to do all of that?”

He leaned in close, as if to share a secret or bit of gossip. “Oh, I certainly hope not, or else they will be sorely disappointed.”

“I’ve had a rough go of it as well,” he said. After glancing around, he reached into his pocket to present Ezra and Anathema with his edited sketch of The Reckoner (edited in so far as it now had the classic devil horns and a curly mustache in red ink).

Ezra and Anathema both tittered behind their hands, and Crowley withdrew the paper before it was confiscated or something. “It’s bloody awful, innit?” Both of them nodded, much to his relief. “Ezra, why did it have to attack America first?”

“You know, my dear, I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Ezra was still smiling as he said to Crowley, gently, “I’ve missed you.”

Crowley refused to react to Anathema’s bouncing eyebrows in his periphery, though he strongly considered kicking her under the table.


End file.
